The three split up to look for their friends. Frank spotted the exit as a petite brunette came up to Joe and took his hand. He watched them leave, happy to see his brother finally moving on, then continued looking for Chet, Biff or Tony.

"I want that painting!" thundered a deep baritone from the room ahead of Frank. Curious, he made his way to the entryway and stood to the side, watching the curator, a man of average build with pale blue eyes and thinning black hair try to explain why he couldn’t sell the painting.

"Talk to the owner then," ordered the man whom Frank felt for some reason he should know, but didn’t. Like the curator, he was of average height but his form filled out the Armani suit he wore leaving no one in doubt he packed a powerful build. His hair was a sandy brown and his eyes were an intense blue. His square chin promised he was hard and stubborn. "Make him sell."

"I can’t make him sell," the curator insisted, shaking his head. "He has put the painting on permanent loan to the museum. It is under contract. You would not only have to have the owner’s permission to purchase the painting but the board of directors as well."

"I’ll give a million dollars," the curator was told. "Your board of directors," he said the word with contempt, "and the owner can sort through who gets what." The man took a step closer to the curator and Frank tensed, expecting a fight. "I strongly suggest you convince him to sell," he stated, his tone as menacing as his proximity.

Frank cleared his throat; worried that the man was going to start something he didn’t think the curator could handle. The man looked up and spotted Frank near the doorway. "Who are you?" he snapped.

Frank pulled himself up and puffed out his chest, much as a gorilla would when trying to bluff its way through a confrontation. "Frank Hardy," he answered with an even tone.

The man looked him over from head to toe before locking eyes with Frank. "You’re Fenton Hardy’s son," he observed, his eyes narrowed.

Frank gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "Stay out of my business," the man ordered Frank in a gruff tone. "I don‘t want to cross swords with Fenton Hardy but I will if I must and I assure you, I will be the victor," he ended, then turned back to the curator. "I want that painting by tomorrow afternoon," he growled before striding away. He brushed past Frank who had to side step to avoid being run down by the irate man.

The curator sighed and nervously ran a hand over the top of his head letting it come to a rest at the back of his neck. He gave his neck a little rub before dropping his hand and turning to leave the room.

"Excuse me," Frank stepped in front of him, blocking his exit. "What painting did he want?"

"The Renoir," the curator replied, pointing with a jerk of his head. "It’s one of our prize pieces. The museum will never allow it to be sold."

"Who was he?" Frank asked.

"You don’t know?" the curator asked in amazement. Frank shook his head. "But you are Fenton Hardy’s son?"

"I already admitted I was," Frank pointed out. "Is he someone I should know?"